


troubled ones

by 1001cranes



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-12 20:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1001cranes/pseuds/1001cranes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Isaac,” he says, the name flying to his lips, unbidden. Bad enough to admit he’d known the kid’s name to begin with, much less remembered it after seven years.</i>
</p>
<p>AU where Isaac and Jackson were once childhood friends. [Based on a Teen Wolf Ficathon prompt]</p>
            </blockquote>





	troubled ones

**Author's Note:**

> The original prompt and unedited fic are [here](http://christhemsworth.livejournal.com/614.html?thread=9318#t155494). I stupidly read the prompt wrong, _mea culpa_ \- maybe someone can write this correctly for poor anon?

Jackson doesn’t have any better reason for being up at two in the morning, smoking a joint, than because he wants to. It’s a bad night, he assures himself. A bad week. McCall being named Co-Captain, god knows why – Danny having to go to the hospital after McCall knocked him on his ass, and what kind of _Captain_ damages his own fucking team. McCall’s just lucky it wasn’t anything serious.

And then Lydia’s also apparently decided it’s time for their bi-monthly breakup. Jackson thinks he could do without the drama, honestly, but he usually ends up thinking that he doesn’t want to do without _Lydia_ , so here he is. Smoking up, alone, on his front porch. 

He shouldn’t, technically. Not that anyone’s going to suspect _Jackson Whittemore_ of taking steroids, the same way everyone should be looking at McCall, but it’s a risk. 

A minimal risk. Just the once. He’ll probably be fine. He just - 

And it’s stupid. Chances are that Lydia will stroll into school again tomorrow and stop by his locker, wondering aloud if there’s time to get a frappuccino before class starts, and before Jackson knows what he’s doing he’ll be volunteering to get her a grande strawberries and crème. Forgiveness via Starbucks. 

“It’s nothing,” he says. Nothing. It’s never anything, is it, never the giant blow-up he’s expecting, never the world-changing shakedown. None of it matters.

He takes another hit, and nearly jumps out of his skin when the lump across the street moves. Almost drops the joint, he’s so startled. There was never anyone across the street. Even when Mr. Lahey was alive he was pretty much the definition of a drunk, belligerent shut-in, and now that he’d died? Jackson’s parents were just hoping that whoever moved in would actually abide by the rules of the neighborhood home association.

“Hey,” Jackson says. His voice carries nicely in the dead of morning. One of the neighbor’s dogs lets out a yip. “There a reason you’re squatting on a dead man’s property, or do I have to call the cops?”

The lump – this _kid_ , actually, slight and curly-haired - lifts his head and stares straight at Jackson. Eyes boring into him, and even from all the way across the street and over the walkway Jackson immediately knows who it is. Has only ever seen eyes like that on one person. A pale gray-blue, somewhere between water and ice and sky.

“Isaac,” he says, the name flying to his lips, unbidden. Bad enough to admit he’d known the kid’s name to begin with, much less remembered it after seven years.

“Jackson,” echoes softly in return. He remembers too, and Jackson finds his feet taking him down the walkway, across the pavement, to the edge of the yard.

“You heard,” he says, and feels stupid. Of course someone told him his dad died.

“The county called this morning,” Isaac says. Eyes lifted only as far as Jackson’s feet, which are cold against the concrete, and he’s regretting his decision to forgo shoes. “He didn’t really have anyone else.”

“Not surprising,” Jackson scoffs, and something that might be a sob slips out of Isaac, quiet and broken. 

Jesus. Jackson isn’t fit for human company today, is he? Maybe never. Never has been. He doesn’t know what to do, though. Doesn’t know how Isaac got here, or where he’s even really been since his mom packed up and took him with her. But he knows it’s cold, it’s two in the morning, and no one needs to be sitting outside their dead dad’s house alone.

“Come on,” Jackson says, and reaches out to grab Isaac’s upper arm. Ignores the way he flinches and then turns his head away, like he’s embarrassed. He’s shivering inside of his hoodie. From the cold, maybe, or even the shock. “It’s as cold as fuck, and I’ve got school in the morning.”

“What are you – ”

“Come inside, or I’m calling the cops,” because Jackson likes to get his way. Whatever he has to do.

Something that might be a smile flits across Isaac’s face. There and gone, quick as lightning. “All right.”

| |

Seeing Isaac sit at his kitchen table is… strange. Hasn’t happened in seven years, or more, and it was pb&j, then, glasses of milk and grass-stains on their knees and mud underneath their nails. Now Isaac’s hands are scrubbed clean, and long. Slender around the coffee cup. Clutching at it like a lifeline.

“I’m sorry,” is what Jackson decides to say, because that’s what you’re supposed to say, right? I’m sorry he’s dead, I’m sorry for your loss – even though Jackson doesn’t know exactly how much of a loss he’s supposed to be pretending it was.

Isaac, it seems, might feel the same way. The right corner of his mouth turns down. A tiny dimple pushed into the side of his face. “I don’t know what to say either. You know what he was like.”

“Yeah,” because he did. Even when they were kids knew that it was safer to be at Jackson’s than at Isaac’s, that things were different when Mr. Lahey wasn’t around. Better. “A lot of it didn’t make sense until later, but.” He shrugs. “I knew.”

Isaac nods. “I know. I didn’t, I – you start to think it’s normal,” is what he says, finally, and Jackson understands in that moment more than he ever has. He can’t explain what it’s like to be adopted to people who aren’t – living under an axe of not good enough, thinking anyone can quit you, and return you. That at least one person already has. It shapes you. It shapes everything.

“Come on,” is what he says instead, and Isaac looks up from his coffee. Again, with those damn eyes. “Upstairs.”

“I—”

Jackson sets his own cup on the countertop. Luisa will get it in the morning. “It’s fine. We have like three guest rooms,” and his parents are asleep, snugly tucked into their bed amongst a few Xanex and who knows how many scotches.

“I remember,” Isaac says, quiet. “Just – why are you doing this?” and Jackson stops, goes still with his own kind of shock because he _doesn’t know_. Wouldn’t do this for most of the kids at school, much less someone he hasn’t seen pre-puberty. He just is.

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” he grits out. “You want some clothes to sleep in, or what?”

| |

When Jackson ducks into his own room for clothes, he feels the strange urge to drag Isaac in behind him. To tuck him into his own bed.

He punishes himself by giving Isaac one of Danny’s forgotten shirts, where the scent of Armani still clings, and not his own. It seems safer.

| |

But it’s a bit of self-service, maybe, that Jackson puts Isaac in the blue bedroom; darker than Isaac’s eyes, but nicely offset by the sandy-brown of his curls. 

Isaac tucks himself in slowly. Slides under the blankets gingerly, and Jackson watches the thin line of him tucked beneath the covers with envy. 

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” Isaac says. Folds his arms over his knees. “You know, I didn’t think you would remember me? Thought you’d – we played lacrosse against you, you know. My high school, I mean.” 

“Don’t be stupid,” he says, even though he doesn’t remember playing Isaac, actually. Too focused on winning, probably, but he knows better now. “Of course I remember you.”

Isaac shrugs. “I guess I just mean - you never needed me the way I needed you.” He smiles, a little – self-conscious, self-depreciating, so ready for Jackson to dismiss him, and something in Jackson’s chest bursts. 

“You don’t know a goddamn thing,” he snarls. Isaac wasn’t there to help with the pieces – that Jackson had cried every night for a week, snuffling into his pillow so he wouldn’t wake up his parents. The way he’d lurked around the Lahey house, tried to break into Isaac’s room, so _certain_ that Isaac wouldn’t have left without a goodbye. The brief stint back in therapy, the way Jackson has come to hate the phrase ‘abandonment issues’ with a fervor he doesn’t reserve for anything else. “I _missed_ you,” he says, even though Isaac had been the one who left Jackson, just the same way everyone else did. Even knowing Isaac hadn’t had much choice in the matter didn’t make a difference in how it felt.

He can’t stand the way his eyes tear up. The tightening in his throat, the way his hands have become fisted up in the bedcovers. He wants to punch something. 

“I missed you too,” Isaac says, low and soft. One hand reaching out to press just on top of Jackson’s, fingers overlaying one another, and it would take just a slip of his own fingers to make it so they were holding hands. “Jackson – “ and their arms are around another, too tight to be pulled apart, if anyone dared try. Jackson breathes in skin and sweat and the faint scent of Armani, until he feels Isaac drowsing against his shoulder. Heavy.

“Come on, stop drooling on me,” he says. “Go to sleep,” and lowers Isaac down onto the bed. Watches his eyelashes flutter. “Want me to let you sleep in?” It has to be nearly four in the morning now, at least.

Isaac hums an agreement, and Jackson likes the way Isaac pushes his face into the palm of Jackson’s hand. Twists his whole body to the side for an inch more of touch.

“Okay,” Jackson says. “You know. You know I-” 

“You w’re my best friend,” Isaac murmurs. “Only thing I missed.”

Jackson thinks about watching Isaac sleep, in case he dreams. Thinks about falling asleep next to him, and skipping school and going out for pancakes – blueberry for Jackson and plain for Isaac, no syrup but oozing with butter, and chocolate milk for both. He thinks about trying to catch Lydia after school, apologetic frappuccino in hand. 

Time enough for everything, he thinks, and curls his fingers around Isaac’s wrist. Just tight enough to keep him captive. For Isaac to flex in his sleep, restless, and settle again under Jackson’s hand.


End file.
